


go cry about it why don't you

by johniaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Infidelity, M/M, Murder, but like its an accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johniaurens/pseuds/johniaurens
Summary: Alex just has his rage and his pride and his stubbornness and sometimes Aaron fuckinghateshim.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexanger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/gifts).



> _me: slow dancing in a burning room by john mayer is hamburr_   
>  _alex: very hamburr please write fic based on this song_
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> alex asked. he shall Receive bc hes good and deserves the nicest of things. this isnt a nice thing but he wanted it so
> 
> [hits pans and pots together] this doesn't make any sense. its 6am. i need to sleep. titles from slow dancing in a burning room by john mayer bc Duh

**1.** Talking too much isn’t the only cliche about Alex that Aaron hates but it’s the one that comes up the most and is the most relevant most of the time and just is _there_ the most and Aaron says “shut up” and sometimes it’s a joke, most of the time it’s a joke, because he loves Alex and his voice, his squeaky-excited voice, his ramblings and he likes the way he thinks and the way he phrases his sentences and he loves his mouth too and how it shapes itself around the vowel sounds, the clunking of consonants around in his mouth, rolling over and making room for each other on his tongue, how he pronounces the t’s and the k’s and the r’s, makes them sharp and metallic and copper-tasting, how he has the smallest hint of accent when he gets angry, but god he hates how he just won’t shut up after he’s already won and Aaron’s already licking his metaphorical wounds from yet another verbal attack that he knew from the beginning he would never be able to counter. 

**2.** Alex just has his rage and his pride and his stubbornness and sometimes Aaron fucking _hates_ him. He leaves his clothes on the floor and puts his dishes in the sink instead of in the dishwasher or even on the counter and they get gross and is it really too fucking much to ask for if Aaron just wants one day when his own apartment isn’t disgusting, when he can wash his hands in the kitchen sink without having to look at Alex’s spoons and plates and mugs? Is it really? 

Alex has his good moments and his less than good moments and Aaron gets tired of that sometimes, gets tired of him, even, but that’s mean, that’s - that’s _cruel_ , and it’s not like Aaron isn’t bad sometimes too, like he doesn’t drive Alex up the wall, like he doesn’t make him angry and frustrated and it’s not like he doesn’t yell at him too -

It’s just. Alex. There’s so much of him. He’s everywhere. He and his fox teeth and tired eyes that Aaron doesn’t like looking into for too long.

 **3.** But _god_ he loves him. He doesn’t really leave the apartment unless it’s to pick fights or buy coffee, and he’s young and Aaron gets it, he’s young too, and they’re both a little fucked up and Aaron isn’t the only one with multiple prescriptions and bottle pills and therapy instructions to _breathe, breathe_ or _just focus on where you are_ and he loves his Alex so much, his boy, his _baby_ , his jet black eyes, his face scratchy against Aaron’s when they kiss or a hug or whatever, loves his handwriting, loves how he smells like coffee and honey, the way his hair feels against his fingers, he loves him. He doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t. At night he stays awake thinking _I don’t hate him, I don’t_ and pretends he doesn’t think _do I really not?_ back at himself. 

**4.** And then the door handles are suddenly too hot to touch and the smoke curls around his neck like long-fingered hands ready to leave bruises and Alex gets so close to him those times, puts his hands on Aaron’s shoulders, arms around his neck, hands on his hips, and tries to get him to sit down but Aaron doesn’t want to sit down and they just stand there, in the middle of the living room, still littered by hoodies and dirty glasses and Alex hums a thready tune and he can’t even sing, Aaron thinks, he can’t fucking sing, but he sways to the melody nevertheless and lets Alex pull him into his body. 

**5.** Alex likes to play this game of real or not real that Aaron hates because he never has any real answers for him. Alex says “I came home alone” and Aaron says “true.” But that doesn’t mean nothing happened. That doesn’t mean anything but that Alex isn’t dumb and Aaron knew that already. He isn’t. He knows how to cover his tracks but he always forgets that Aaron isn’t dumb either and he doesn’t know how to lie. He’ll come home and Aaron will _know_. Call it intuition. Call it perception. Call it whatever the fuck you like but it’s always the same. 

Alex puts his lying face on. It makes him look like a fox, features sharper. Teeth longer. Clothes a shade of red, probably. More red things - his blood, his eyes, his knuckles. Bruises, too, but those are purpling. Some are already turning into an ugly shade of green. Alex puts his lying face on and Aaron says _I’m tired of these stories. Can’t you tell me something truthful or at least nice for once. If you have to lie to my face can’t you at least say nice things._

Alex, home, but only halfway in his body. Aaron, home, but only halfway in his body. Aaron wishes the other halves of their souls, of whatever stardust their very beings are made of were in each other’s bodies but they’re not. They never are. They never are anymore.

 **6.** Going down - 

black smoke -- 

going down going down going down --

 **7.** “Hey,” says Alex. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the couch with Aaron’s legs on his shoulders. He could kiss his ankles, if he tried. If he wanted to. He doesn’t. Aaron isn’t surprised.

“Yeah,” replies Aaron. He’s read the paper twice already and he’s tired of pretending to be interested in it anymore. He’s done the crosswords. He’s looked at the horoscopes. He didn’t read them out loud, but he could have. Alex would have wanted to hear his and somehow not reading it for him felt good. It’s sad that he has to play games like this to feel even a little bit in control. It’s sad that he’s consciously doing things like this, as if they matter. As if Alex can’t just read the paper himself after he’s done with it. Aaron is almost tempted to keep it forever - claim he isn’t done with it yet, isn’t done with it, no, not yet, won’t be done with it for a while. Maybe he’ll start hoarding them. Tomorrow he will wake up before Alex and get the paper before Alex can see it, and then the day after that, and the day after that too. He’ll say _Huh. That’s weird. They just stopped delivering suddenly_. No more papers for Alex.

He wouldn’t. He’s not going to. He’s not that person. He counts his personality traits with his fingers. He’s reserved, he’s objective, he’s reasonable, he’s calm, he’s _if you stand for nothing Burr what do you fall for_. 

Alex shrugs to get Aaron’s feet off of his shoulder and when it doesn’t work he uses his hands to remove them. “We’re out of milk.”

Aaron guesses that at one point in his life that could have been cute. Endearing. Adorably domestic. But now - 

“I don’t even fucking drink milk,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice, and he doesn’t look at Alex. Alex doesn’t look back at him, either. He’s staring at the wall, he thinks, and thinking too much. Thinking foxes. Thinking smoke. Thinking birds, maybe. 

Alex doesn’t go to the store. Alex doesn’t buy milk. They remain milkless, until finally Aaron relents, brings home two gallons. Alex doesn’t look up from his laptop when he does so. 

“I got you the fucking milk,” Aaron says. He tries to sound more annoyed than he is. Alex’s face looks thinner than it should in this light, from this angle. 

Aaron sits down. Aaron doesn’t imagine what Alex is thinking.

(What will he fall for?)

 **8.** So at the end of it Alex is left picking gunpowder and bone shards out of his lungs and Aaron is left with his hands bloody. He always is. That’s how it always goes. Alex is the martyr and Aaron is the murderer. Some days he’s also the cross. Others he’s the nails. Today he’s both. Today he’s the hammer and the people gathering to watch. Chisel to teeth. Nail to bone. Fork to plate. Aaron shivers. He’s still looking at his hands. They’re bruising where knuckle meets the back of the hand. Huh. 

“You know,” says Alex from the floor, voice a little quieter than normal, chest heaving, “I would forgive you. I always forgive you. Time. Can I have that? Just a little. Please. I want to forgive you again, Aaron. I want more time. Please?” 

Aaron doesn’t say anything. There’s something to be said about that; remorse meeting regret meeting grief meeting emptiness. Seven stages of it, all at once. Something to be said about that. Something about the dents. In Aaron’s bones or in the wood of the counters, he doesn’t know. Something else to be said, then. Another story. Maybe one with birds - one without foxes. One without stones. One without too many fists, or murky water rippling in the sunlight. Maybe one with a clearing, and a house, and someone letting the birds come in for the night to hide from the wolves, from the owls. No foxes in this story. 

A nice story. He longs for that story. He wants a fairytale ending. Wants to pretend this is a painting and not a crime scene. Wants to think he will take Alex to an art museum and they’ll make out in front of this painting. Alex will tell him he can’t touch him and Aaron will say why not and Alex will say _we’re not allowed to touch the artworks_ and Aaron will punch him in the shoulder, gently, like he used to.

And he didn’t mean it- he didn’t, he loves Alex, fuck, and Alex _knows_ , he has to, right? 

“Yeah,” says Alex. He struggles. Can’t get a good breath in. Something wet in his lungs, Aaron thinks. Blood, probably. “I know, asshole.” 

And Aaron thinks - 

going _down_ -

**Author's Note:**

> anyways yell at me on tumblr @laflams or on twitter @darlinglaurens


End file.
